Fly: A Christmas Story
by Sandilynn Petersen
Summary: Six-year-old H. M. Murdock wants one big thing from Santa for Christmas. Will the gift from his Grampa be good enough?
1. Chapter 1

Fly: A Christmas Story

Disclaimer: I do not own The A-Team movie or televisin series or any of the delightful characters found on The A-Team.

Chapter 1

I tippytoe, hunched down, tryin' like everythin' t' avoid the creaky ol' floorboards in the upstairs hallway o' my Gramma 'n' Grampa's house. Gramma tucked me in 'bout an hour 'go. She looked real tired as she knelt b'side my bed, took my hand 'n' prayed that the monsters'd leave me 'lone t'night.

I wish they would, too. I try thinkin' only happy thoughts b'fore I go t' sleep but it's too hard t' think happy right now. The bad dreams keep comin'.

I don' like wakin' my Gramma 'n' Grampa up with my screamin' 'n' cryin'. Thing is, I don' even r'member what the monsters look like in my dreams. I do know what they wanna do with me if they catch me.

Some o' them have voices that soun' like the doctor that took care o' Ma b'fore she died in the hospital.

But most o' them soun' like Pa when he's drunk a bunch o' that stuff that burns when it goes down. The stuff he made me drink a couple o' times when he was visitin'.

Never in front o' Ma 'r my Gramma 'r Grampa. A'ways out in the barn like we was hidin' somethin' we weren' s'posed t' do. The stuff makes me feel fuzzy 'n' warm.

When Ma died . . . thinkin' 'bout her last breaths makes a lump the size o' Texas come up in my throat . . . mus' be what makes the tears come out . . .

When Ma died, Gramma 'n' Grampa let me keep on livin' at their house like I'd done since I was born.

They love me but I'm pretty sure my Pa don' love me. Ma gave me his initials as a first name. H. M. stands for Harley McKeever. When Pa hits me he does it like he hates me. I don' understan' why. Maybe someday I'll do somethin' so good he'll hafta be proud o' me.

I stop 'n' hunker down by the top step. The hall railin' hides me a li'l. It's hard t' hide when yer tall for yer age. I can see the whole livin' room from where I am but that ain' why I'm here.

Gramma 'n' Grampa are real tired 'n' both o' them hafta get up t' do chores in the mornin'. Like Grampa a'ways says t' me, "The horses, chickens 'n' cows don' feed themselves." I have chores, too, but if I have a real bad night, I wake up 'n' my chores're done for me.

That should make me feel good but it don'. I wanna help Gramma 'n' Grampa 'cause they saved me from havin' t' live with Pa. 'N' 'cause I love 'em with the part o' my heart that's left over from lovin' Ma 'n' Billy. That part ain' ever gonna be filled.

They shouldn' be awake this time o' night. They should be sleepin'. 'Specially since t'morrow's Christmas Eve.

This thing I have that sometimes tells me what someone's thinkin' b'fore they say anythin' tells me they're talkin' 'bout me. That's why I'm listenin' from up here.

In my mind I see them sittin' at the kitchen table over two cups o' coffee. Both o' them're dressed in bedclothes 'n' robes. The scene is so real in my head that I feel like I'm standin' there right b'side them, invisible. It's kinda neat but kinda scary at the same time t' be able t' do this.

"The dreams're gettin' worse. Ever since his Ma died . . . " That was my Gramma's voice. It fades 'way like she can't get the rest o' the words out.

"Kindygarten ain' makin' it any better. H. M.'s smart, real smart, but he don' seem t' have a lotta friends." That was Grampa.

"Give him time. Right now, he needs somethin' t' keep his mind occupied." I hear the tears hidden b'hind Gramma's words.

She mus' be hurtin' over Ma bein' gone as much as I am.

"But the kids're home for Christmas vacation. He doesn' have a lot t' keep his mind busy right now. There are only so many ways he can help out 'round here t' help him forget this las' year. That's why I talked t' my friend las' week." In my mind I see Grampa take a gulp o' coffee 'n' push his chair back t' go t' the stove 'n' get more.

"But shouldn' his Christmas present be somethin' he can play with? Maybe a toy airplane 'r army men?" Gramma's worried but I can' figure out what it has t' do with Christmas.

When I asked Gramma t' help me write my letter t' Santa this year, she got all teary-eyed. I a'most wished I had asked for stuff the other kids were askin' for at school. But the only thin' I could think of was t' see Ma 'n' my li'l baby brother 'gain. So I asked for that 'n' she wrote it down 'n' then she hugged me like she'd never let me go.

I don' want toys 'r games . . . not even comic books. No one can give me what I want, I guess. Not even Santa.

Gramma's talkin' 'gain 'n' she sounds like she's beggin' Grampa t' rethink somethin'. "Are you sure 'bout this? Is it safe?"

Grampa answers her. "He'll be careful. He said 's long as H. M. does what he's tol' they should be fine."

In my mind I see him put his hand over hers 'n' squeeze it gentle-like.

I know there's a couple o' small wrapped gifts under the tree for me. This doesn' soun' like somethin' they can wrap. I wanna stay 'n' listen but I don' want them t' catch me outta bed. They might have me do extra chores 'cause I disobeyed.

I tiptoe back t' bed 'n' snuggle down under the quilt Gramma pieced t'gether over the las' few months. I guess that was her way t' keep her min' 'n' hands busy.

I think 'bout Ma 'n' her readin' t' me outta Dr. Suess 'til my thoughts go fuzzy 'n' I fall 'sleep. Those're the happiest thoughts I can think.


	2. Chapter 2

Fly: A Christmas Story

Disclaimer: I do not own The A-Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A-Team.

Chapter 2

I open my eyes the nex' mornin' t' sunlight 'n' plenty of it comin' in through my bedroom windows.

How many bad dreams did I have las' night? I don' r'member but I know it musta been bad 'cause Gramma 'n' Grampa let me sleep 'stead o' havin' me get up t' do chores.

I sigh. Gramma b'lieves her prayers'll be answered 'n' I'll be able t' sleep without dreamin' someday but prayin' didn' stop Ma from dyin', did it?

I push back the bedcovers 'n' start gettin' dressed in a hurry. Maybe there's still a couple o' things I can help with.

The knock on my door's Grampa seein' if I'm 'wake. I can tell. I don' know how I can tell but I can.

"I'm a'most ready," I call, scramblin' t' pull on socks 'n' tennies.

The door opens. Grampa smiles at me but he seems kinda sad.

"Chores're done. Your Gramma's got a real good breakfast waitin'. Then we're all goin' for a drive. It's Christmas Eve, son."

"Where're we goin', Grampa?" I ask, sensin' it's gotta be somethin' t' do with what I heard them sayin' when I was s'posed t' be in bed sleepin'.

"You'll see after breakfast" is all he'll tell me.

I finish tyin' my shoes, peekin' at Grampa as I do it. He's waitin' but not hurryin' me. He's got a bit o' mischief in his eyes 'n' a smile on his face as he leans 'gainst the door frame.

As soon as I'm ready, he holds out his hand 'n' leads me down t' the kitchen table. All the while, I think 'n' think some more 'bout where we're goin' 'n' what we'll be doin'. From what my Gramma 'n' Grampa said las' night, it might be dangerous.

The thought o' that gets me all impatient t' get goin'. I barely eat anythin' even when Gramma scolds me.

Finally she gives up tryin' t' make me finish what's on my plate. She sets the dishes t' soakin' in the sink, somethin' she don't do very often.

She's kinda excited t' be on our way, too.

Grampa opens the door o' the truck for Gramma 'n' me, then disappears int' the barn. When he comes back out, he's carryin' a handmade wreath.

I r'member Gramma workin' on it at the kitchen table a few afternoons. She tied ol' grape vines t'gether int' a circle 'n' then wove short leaf pine branches, some holly 'n' a buncha loblolly pine cones all 'round it.

I asked her why she was cryin'. She said it was the arthritis in her fingers actin' up but I don' think it was that at all. She finished it off with red ribbon 'n' a big gold colored bow.

Grampa gently puts the wreath in the back o' the truck 'n' then we're off. We turn t'ward Sour Lake when we get out t' Grayburg Road. I don' get it. There ain' nothin' in Sour Lake that's dangerous 'r excitin'.

I don' hafta wait long t' see where we're goin'. Grampa turns off Grayburg 'n' heads past my school, then turns into the cemetery. It's been a long time since I've been here.

This's where Ma's sleepin'.

We all get outta the truck. Grampa lifts down the wreath 'n' Gramma takes my hand. T'gether we walk past gravestones that have li'l decorated Christmas trees, pine boughs all fancied up with glitter 'n' ribbon 'n' other stuff. One grave even has a teddy bear on it.

Ma's grave don' have anythin' on it. Figures Pa didn' put anythin' there. He never talks 'bout her when he visits me. Never. 'N' cuffs me 'longside the head when Gramma's not watchin' if I say anythin' 'bout her.

Grampa stops in front o' the stone 'n' hands me the wreath.

"Go 'head, son. Lay this in front o' the marker."

I do as I'm tol', hearin' Gramma sniffle a few times b'hin' me. I kneel 'n' touch Ma's name.

All those mem'ries . . . Ma tuckin' me in 'n' readin' t' me . . . huggin' me 'n' makin' me feel better when I got a sliver in my hand 'n' had t' have it taken out . . . smilin' at me when I brought in the eggs I foun' under Gramma's layin' hens . . . they all get big in my head 'n' force the tears out . . .

It's funny but at that moment some kinda li'l bird with a yellow streak 'round its eyes 'n' spots all over its chest lands on Ma's stone. It peers at me for a second, then flies 'way. I can't help but watch it.

Maybe if I could fly I could see where Ma 'n' Billy are in Heaven 'n' tell 'em I miss 'em. But I can't so I whisper my message 'n' hope the bird d'livers it t' them.

I get t' my feet. I wanna talk 'bout the li'l bird 'n' what I sent it t' do but I see Grampa huggin' Gramma 'n' strokin' her hair. Both o' them're cryin'.

Grampa 'n' Gramma each hold out an arm 'n' nex' thing I know I'm huggin' both o' them with all my strength.

Then Grampa 'n' Gramma take my hands 'n' we go back t' the truck.

"We'll come back 'gain on Mother's Day, H. M.," Gramma tells me as Grampa drives down the road.

I nod. The mem'ries hurt but I know it's the right thin' t' do . . . t' visit 'n' not forget.


	3. Chapter 3

Fly: A Christmas Story

Disclaimer: I do not own The A-Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A-Team.

Chapter 3

Grampa's real quiet as he drives. Gramma dabs at her eyes with a hankie.

Me? I'm starin' down at the floor o' the truck, still thinkin' 'bout that li'l bird sittin' on Ma's gravestone. If I could fly . . . if I could fly . . .

If I could fly . . . I'd go t' Heaven.

Suddenly I think o' somethin' that gets me worried. I don' know where Heaven is. If Ma 'n' Billy're in Heaven 'n' I don' know how t' get there, does the _li'l bird_ know how t' get there t' d'liver my message?

I peek at Gramma, then Grampa. Gramma glances at me, her eyes still moist. She pats my knee 'n' smooths back my hair. "Everythin' will be alright," she tells me. She sounds like she's barely able t' squeeze out the words.

Grampa's swallowin' back his own feelin's. I don' wanna bother them with my question. They're real sad.

I'm real sad, too.

Somehow, I don' care 'bout Christmas gifts anymore. All the toy army men 'n' planes in the world ain' gonna bring Ma back t' life.

I'm happy we went t' see Ma's grave, don' get me wrong. It jus' made Christmas Eve a li'l harder t' take.

I figure we'll be goin' home now. But when I look at the road 'n' the stuff we're passin', I don' see anythin' I r'member.

For a while we keep goin' 'n' I wonder if Grampa's forgot how t' get home.

He wouldn' forget that. He's lived 'round here all his life. The farm Gramma 'n' Grampa owns was _his_ Pa 'n' Ma's farm at one time. He's tol' me one day it'll be mine 'cause I'm the only grandson he's got.

'N' he'll never let Pa own it. _Never._

Grampa makes a turn 'n' drives down a dirt road. There was a sign on the corner but I didn' catch the words. If I had, I mighta been able t' read a few o' them. Ma 'n' Gramma taught me how t' sound out words so I can read a li'l.

"Are you sure 'bout this? He'll be safe?" Gramma sounds worried. There's that question 'gain. I wonder what it is that's gonna be dangerous.

I straighten up in the seat 'n' look 'round. Grampa's slowin' the truck down.

Ahead o' us I see a man that looks t' be 'bout Grampa's age walkin' t'ward our parked truck.

"Jus' wait here, H. M.," Gramma whispers as Grampa steps outta the truck t' meet him.

Grampa shakes his hand 'n' smiles. They clap each other on the back. Grampa nods back at Gramma 'n' me as they talk.

"That's Mister Dunstable. He flew the planes your Grampa worked on during World War One," Gramma tells me.

My eyes jus' 'bout pop outta my head. Grampa said Jerry Dunstable was 'bout the best pilot the Army Signal Corps ever had. Did our part o' Texas proud durin' the war. 'N' it looks like I'm gonna get t' meet him.

So why's Gramma so worried?

Grampa waves his hand, tellin' me 'n' Gramma t' come meet his friend.

I scramble over the driver's side 'n' tumble outta the truck. My feet raise dust as they hit the ground.

Forgettin' 'bout Gramma, I hurry t' Grampa's side. When I get there, I suddenly get kinda tongue-tied. Mister Dunstable's taller'n me 'n' the stories 'bout his flyin' skills make him a legend.

How do ya talk t' a legend when yer jus' six years old?

Mister Dunstable holds out his hand. Grampa nudges me t' unfreeze me 'n' shake hands with his friend.

"Yer Grampa thought ya may like t' take a ride with me. I got a couple o' farms I gotta visit but yer welcome t' come with me."

Come with him? Really?

Only now do I look 'round me. A man in coveralls works on the back of a truck.

That ain' the part that makes me stare.

Close by the truck's the prettiest li'l plane ya ever saw. The whole thing's painted bright yella with red 'n' black letters 'n' numbers on the wings 'n' side.

The man carries a bucket t' the front seat o' the plane 'n' empties it, then goes back t' the truck.

"Ya wanna come 'long, son?"

Grampa nudges me 'gain. It takes a bit for me t' r'member how t' speak.

When I do, my voice comes out in a squeak. "Yes sir, Mister Dunstable, sir."

"Call me Jerry." My Grampa's friend smiles down at me.

He motions with his hand at the plane. "'N' her name's Ruthie."

I mus' look surprised 'cause Jerry's smile grows inta a wide grin.

"I bought Ruthie for $250 back in 1950. Army was gonna scrap her but I saw she had a few more good years in her." He gets serious. "She's a Boeing Kaydet Model 75. She's what I trained in when I was learnin' t' fly."

He watches his hired man bring 'nother bucket t' empty inta Ruthie's front seat area.

"When I save up a few more bucks I'm gonna get 'nother so I can train young guys like you how t' fly." He motions with his head 'n' starts walkin'. "Let's go say howdy t' Ruthie, son."

Grampa bends down t' whisper in my ear. "Go on, H. M. I'll make sure yer Gramma don' worry too much when yer up there."

I'm goin' up in the sky. I'm gonna fly. I feel like all this's a dream 'n' any moment I'm gonna wake up in my own bed. I make my feet follow Jerry t' the plane, lookin' back at Gramma 'n' Grampa only once t' make sure it's okay.

Gramma's smile don' fool me. She's worried sick but Grampa's got his arm 'round her waist. He's talkin' t' her 'n' noddin' t' me at the same time.

"Me 'n' Ruthie's been seedin' 'n' dustin' fields goin' on three years now. That's what we're gonna do t'day . . . spray pesticides on a couple o' fields." He stands with one hand on the lower wing o' the plane. "The front cockpit's where the tank is with the pesticide we're gonna be sprayin'. That means we'll hafta squeeze in the rear cockpit. Ya gotta promise not t' squirm 'round. Crop dustin's pretty dang'rous . . . " He glances at Gramma 'n' Grampa where they stand out o' hearin' distance. " . . . but don' you ever tell yer Gramma that."

"I promise." My heart's poundin' hard 'n' fast. I'm so excited I could 'xplode.

"All ready, Mister Dunstable," the hired man calls from the truck.

"Walk with me. Let me show ya how we do a preflight check."

I follow him 'round the outside o' Ruthie, watchin' everythin' he does. I wanna start learnin' all I can right now.

When Jerry's happy everythin' looks good, he pats Ruthie fondly on her tail.

"Day's runnin' by quick. Ya ready t' fly, son?"

He grins 'gain when I nod.

Jerry climbs up into the cockpit 'n' reaches down t' help me get in. After checkin' a couple more things, he slips an ol' leather cap that's got ear flaps over my head 'n' hands me a pair o' goggles t' put on.

"If yer gonna be a pilot someday, ya might as well look the part." He drapes a white scarf 'round my neck.

"There," he says. "Now let's go dust some fields, son."

"Ready when you are, Mister . . . " I r'member jus' in time. "I mean . . . Jerry."

Jerry chuckles 'n' starts up the engine.


End file.
